


this mortal home

by nebulera



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulera/pseuds/nebulera
Summary: yay or nay





	this mortal home

David Kane was vengeful and unhinged.

Arthur remembers it through pieces.

He remembers fighting David on the beach, the same dance as always and one he’d had memorized at this point. Only the rest of the League was there fighting their respective dark mirrors, accessories of the man across from Arthur himself.

He remembers red charged eyes that burned into his soul and skin. If he could, he’d rip the helmet off and look his reflection in the eye and show him peace. But ironically their eyes were unfamiliar to each other. They didn’t know words, only fists. Every time, without exception, it was just the two of them in their their little world. And yet, Arthur couldn’t lie and say his eyes weren’t drifting away to an unwelcome glowing green across the beach, his thoughts overflowing with the image of a suffering man who made Arthur’s heart bloom like a flower in spring.

And that was his biggest mistake.

He remembers the slicing sound of Atlantean metal through flesh, then bone, and the initial pain followed by a blood flow akin to a river during a hurricane. His scream reverberated across the beach. David kicked him down into the water. There was no mercy for him.

"You deserve this."

He remembers that being the only amount of time his nemesis had for him. He heard the tortured scream of _no_ from an angel, not one of physical pain but of the kind that made your chest cave in on itself. Red, blue, gold, and long dark hair flashed before him and David was out of sight.

He remembers blacking out for a few seconds, and when he came to, he’d felt familiar rough hands on his neck and face, heard _Arthur, Arthur, no._ He could barely make out where his left arm ended and joined the sea, blood draining into the water.

He remembers seeing Clark’s face once throughout the entire ordeal as he blacked in and out. The blood loss was making him tired. He’d looked down at him as he knelt above him on the beach, eyes wide, agony matching Arthur’s. Around them, the League’s battle raged on, but it was like white noise.

Clark’s face twisted into something Arthur hopes to never see again, his eyes glowing red and burning the tears away.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Clark said, bowing his head.

Arthur remembers screaming, remembers gripping Clark’s arm so hard it would have broken the bones of a human, remembers the smell of burning, reforming flesh lulling him to sleep.  


…

 

He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. Rough sheets and a hard pillow. An unnerving silence. He blinks a few more times and recognizes the color of the walls and then the hallway behind the windows. He determines quickly this is the med-bay on the Watchtower. And being on the Watchtower was not his most favorite thing in the world, especially now.

He looks over and sees Mera and Clark sitting next to each other asleep with their hands embraced. He watches them for a short while, appreciates these few moments of their relaxed states that he never gets to see anymore. He appreciates them so much for being here by his side. Had they not, Arthur probably would have walked out by now. Arthur means to wake them up but stops short when he spares a glance at his left arm.

It all comes flashing back. Unpleasantly. His forearm is bandaged up to his wrist where it ends prematurely. His hand is completely gone. “Jesus,” Arthur whispers and looks away. He’d wished the fight on the beach were some terrible dream, that Manta was never able to get that far, that he hadn’t had to see the painful look in Clark’s eyes before the horrible burning sensation consumed his entire being. But it was real. Damn David. Damn Arthur for what he’d done to him all those years ago.

“Arthur?”

Clark’s voice breaks him from his thoughts. The other man rises from his seat, careful not to wake Mera. Clark’s mouth is set in a thin line, his eyes a weary blue. When he reaches Arthur’s bedside, he stops, watches him carefully. He gives him a small smile. “Hey sailor, how’re you feeling?”

Arthur doesn’t pay the nickname much attention once he hears it. He’d been so used to hearing it, and it’s an old wound he’s tried to mend for months. Old feelings never go away. Especially those you never wanted gone in the first place.

“Not good to be honest,” he answers. There’s no being dishonest around him. Even if Arthur wanted to, he finds the idea of trying to hide how he feels to Clark silly, regardless if Clark could tell just from his eyes, his heartbeat. Arthur has not been a closed book to the people he loves in a very long time. There’s just an openness that comes easily for him. Telling Clark about his past with David, the Others, as difficult as it had been with Mera, was scary but not difficult. Scary because he didn’t believe himself a good man. Clark was, is, always will be.

“What can I do?” Clark whispers. He puts his hand on the bed railing.

Arthur, realizing how exhausted he is from the fight, puts his hand on top of Clark’s and closes his eyes. “Take me home.”

 

…

 

He wakes up in familiar sheets, on a soft pillow. He hears the sound of muffled waves crashing onto rocks beyond the walls. He knows instantly that he’s at the lighthouse, that he’s home.

But right now he truly cannot stand the emptiness of his bed. Throughout the last few months, he’d gotten used to the lack of familiar warmth, but at this moment he could not feel colder. He’d love right now to curl up next to someone, or for someone to wrap their arms around him. He’d love to bury his face into someone’s neck, rest his head against their chest, for Clark to run his hands down his back—

He doesn’t look at his arm as he walks into the bathroom. He focuses on himself in the mirror, shirtless. Upon noticing some bandages from the fight, he removes the ones that should be healed by now besides the ones wrapped around his wrist. Arthur rubs at his eyes, stares himself down in the mirror.

Looking at himself, where he is, he's never felt more human.  _Gods walk among us._ They don't know the first clue about any of them.

Arthur exits his bedroom into the living room and blinks when he sees the figure lying asleep on his couch with his dog. Upon walking closer he confirms that it’s Clark, clad in an old Smallville t-shirt that he'd left at the back of their — Arthur's closet. Again, a sight for sore eyes.

“Traitor,” he whispers to Salty, who couldn’t care less at the moment and snuggles even closer to his companion.

Arthur quietly walks across the room, sits on the arm rest above Clark’s head. He wonders why he stayed, as well as earlier at the Watchtower. He plans to ask.

The seconds pass slowly for him, and without even thinking, he’s reaching down to brush stray strands of hair away from Clark’s eyes.

Clark takes in a deep breath and shifts then, his eyes blinking open. “Arthur?”

He doesn’t remove his fingers a quickly as he should have. “Hey. Good morning.”

“You — good morning,” Clark says slowly, rising to sit upright. He glances at Arthur’s bandages then up at him. He shifts over on the couch until there would be enough space between them. “Come sit, please.”

Arthur plomps himself down. Salty then gets up and walks across Clark’s legs to meet with Arthur. He scratches behind his ear and gives him a kiss. “Now you want some love.”

He doesn’t notice Clark watching until he looks up. It catches Arthur off-guard. He’s looking at him how he looked at him before…

“Are you feeling okay?” Clark asks. “Are you feeling any pain?”

“Not at the moment, no,” Arthur says. He isn’t okay, really. Losing his hand isn’t an easy task he supposes. It feels wrong. It isn’t, but that’s how he feels. He wishes he could turn off that part of his brain, it’s doing him no favors. “I’m not… okay. But I will be, I promise.”

“It’s going to take time,” Clark with a reassuring voice. It melts into Arthur’s chest.

“I know. I wish it weren't like this,” Arthur replies.

Clark looks down. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry for causing you pain.” Arthur’s mind flashes back to those pain-stricken blue eyes that were soon replaced with red fire forced to cauterize his bleeding wrist. Then his screaming.

“You did what you had to.”

“I know. I would do it again. Even though it made me sick.”

“It’s okay, I promise.” He glances away from his wrist and returns his attention back towards his dog, whose eyes are closed from Arthur petting his head. “Is the rest of the league okay?”

“Everyone is fine. They were all worried about you.”

Arthur nods. “And David Kane?”

Clark’s long and unexpected silence made Arthur look up quickly at the man across the couch, who was looking down into space. No. He couldn’t have.

“What happened to him?” Arthur inquires once again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clark says simply.

“It does.” Arthur feels his heart begin to race. “Clark. Is he dead?”

“No,” Clark replies immediately, though still not looking at Arthur.

He can’t deny his relief. “What did you do to him?”

“Arthur,” Clark says firmly. He finally raises his head and looks him directly in the eye. There’s anger, a muted red fury pointed not at Arthur or himself, only towards the man responsible. “I didn’t touch him.”

Arthur says nothing. He knows — he knows exactly why. He knows because it’s the same for him. Clark had been fighting Metallo that night across the beach. He knows if he’d gotten far enough, if he’d hurt Clark that bad — he pictures Clark’s wrath and David’s utter helplessness at the hands of Superman. There’s endless blood in the water.

“Okay,” Arthur says simply. He watches Clark as he looks down again, but his face slowly shifts from anger into something incredibly pained. Arthur can’t stand it.

He tries to get up to move closer, only irritating Salty who decides to jump off the couch altogether. Arthur then sits across from Clark, knee to knee, and he takes one of his hands. “Hey…”

“I should’ve — ” Clark cuts himself off. “That bastard. If I had been faster, or _known —_ ”

“Don’t,” Arthur cuts him off sharply. “Don’t blame yourself, please, I don’t think I can take that right now.”

“Okay.” And almost absentmindedly, Clark threads their fingers together.

It’s so nice and terrible all at the same time.

They haven’t been together for months, not since Orm happened and Arthur being officially pronounced King of Atlantis. They’d fallen in love years ago, before Arthur was handed those responsibilities. They’d been _together_ through thick and thin. It was the happiest he’d been since Mera. Arthur is an optimistic person, though not as much as Clark is. And he’d known how much the duties of being king would take a strain on their relationship. He’d never doubted Clark’s patience, but Arthur was so afraid he would exploit it. He wouldn’t put Clark through any harm. They ended on good terms, only seeing each other when the League was needed and at meetings. They were fine. Even with the gaping hole left in Arthur’s chest.

Clark unwinds their fingers until their hands are simply touching, looking nervously to the side. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s…” _fine_ , he wants to say. “Are you okay, Clark?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Of course I am.”

“I’m… not okay. But I will be. That was just something I’d not like to go through again.”

“Me neither. I was the one who lost a hand after all.”

Clark laughs. “You asked how I was feeling.”

“I know, how dare I.”

They smile at each other, Clark’s fingers tracing over his hand, and his eyes eyes are so soft against the morning light. For a fleeting moment it’s like nothing has changed.

But then that moment is gone. Clark looks down sadly. “I should… go now, maybe.” He stands and Arthur’s heart almost speaks for him. _No, come back._

“Take care of yourself, Arthur.” He waits only a second before turning towards the front door.

Fuck it, Arthur can’t take it. “Clark.” He waits for the other man to turn to face him. “Please come here.”

Clark does. He waits.

“You brought me here. You stayed all night.”

Clark’s eyes soften. “Of course I did.”

Arthur reaches out to take his hand. He’s careful when he sits back next to Arthur, closer this time, almost shoulder to shoulder. His eyes are unreadable.

“What are you thinking?” Arthur asks him.

Clark doesn’t respond. He brings Arthur’s hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses to his palm. He holds it against his cheek for a short moment, his eyes closed and brow deep in thought. Then he lets it go. “I’m thinking you don’t owe me anything.”

Arthur surges forward. “ _No.”_ He throws his arm over Clark’s chest, rests his forehead against Clark’s cheek. “I know I’m not in your debt. That’s not how this works,” he says and it’s almost pathetic. He’s the one who ended this beautiful thing they had in the first place. There’s no _this_ anymore.

They sit in silence for a short while, both their eyes closed. The time passes so slowly for them. Arthur’s hand is on his neck, his thumb rubbing under his ear. Clark’s hand is on his elbow, his thumb making back and forth motions on his skin. Arthur listens to the white noise of the waves outside. He’s in the arms of the man he loves. God, he’s home.

Arthur kisses Clark’s cheek softly. The other man’s breath hitches. He keeps kissing down and across to Clark’s neck where he gives him soft, warm pecks.

After a few minutes: “Arthur, maybe we should — ”

Arthur lifts his head to look at him. “Mm?”

“I was gonna say we should stop before…” Clark bites his lip nervously.

Arthur spares a glance down. “Oh,” he says. Already. Hmmm.

“Sorry, I just didn’t know if you wanted to — hmpghjf.”

Arthur kisses him hard. He swings a leg over Clark’s lap so he can straddle him as he cups his cheeks. Clark’s hands are finally on him, his touch desperate across his back. He breaks away to breathe. “Oh God.”

“I missed you.” Their foreheads bump together. He kisses Clark’s nose. Then he shifts his hips a little. Clark gasps. “Yeah?

“Can we — ”

“Of course, love.”

Clark’s hands then slide under his thighs and he’s being lifted. Clark effortlessly carries him to the bedroom, setting him down onto the bed carefully, never stops kissing him.

He lets Clark take control. He litters his entire body with worshiping kisses, he’s carefully gentle with his fingers. Arthur’s left hand never becomes an issue. The minute he even spares a negative thought to it, what Clark is doing to him overrides his thoughts. He’s taken to a wonderful bliss.

Clark’s breaths are sharp and sweet. He says Arthur’s name with desperation.

“I’ve got you,” Arthur whispers to him.

When they’re done, Clark leans down to kiss his heavy eyelids and wrap him up in his arms.

Arthur won’t let this go again. He’s strong enough this time not to.

 

…

 

He’s standing at the end of the dock outside the lighthouse.

But he’s not waiting for anyone.

Arthur smiles to himself. He smiles at where the sky meets the sea.

He’ll still lead Atlantis. He’ll still be a member of the League. He’ll still have his place in the world, regardless of how the land and the sea perceive him. He’s still the same man that the people he loves believe in. 

“Sorry, David,” Arthur says. “You’ll have to try harder next time.”

“What’d you say?”

Clark’s feet plant down behind him. He circles his arms around Arthur’s waist.

“Nothing. I was just about to head back in.”

“Mhm.” He hears Clark padding away. “Better keep up, sailor.”

Arthur basks just a little more in the sun and the ocean breeze before he turns around to follow Clark into the lighthouse.

After all, they have the rest of the day to themselves. And then some.

**Author's Note:**

> yay or nay


End file.
